


What the Doctor Ordered

by fengxiaoj, groucha



Series: The Convict and the Guard [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengxiaoj/pseuds/fengxiaoj, https://archiveofourown.org/users/groucha/pseuds/groucha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He reminded himself that it was a blessing just to feel that man's touch on his scar and to experience anything that was not fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Doctor Ordered

**Author's Note:**

> Characters:  
> Valjean: Now works with Sûreté.  
> Javert: With police, liaison to Sûreté.  
> Jeanne: Valjean’s sister.  
> Pierre: Jeanne's surviving young son now a military surgeon.  
> Gavroche and Cosette: Now adopted by Javert (and Valjean).

"Is this…" inquired an exquisitely masculine deep voice from behind the curtain, hesitant, "... the right place?"

"That feels… wet, it is unsettling," responded a second voice, not quite as deep but still indisputably male.

"Only a little wet," the first voice gently admonished, or perhaps the words were meant simply as an agreement.

"But it is moving, wiggling."

In the small room in central Paris where five persons called home, privacy was a nearly non-existent luxury. Jeanne absentmindedly kept the crib next to her rocking steadily and paid no mind to the conversation happening behind the curtain, even when the words turned into gasps, and then a pained groan.

"This is starting to hurt." The formerly hesitant voice had returned tense and urgent.

"Hold on just a little longer," commanded the deeper voice. But as the groans continued it was his turn to become hesitant. "I don't think it is supposed to hurt this much… wait, let me try so I know how it feels."

The bed, to which Valjean had recently added an extension so it would properly accommodate Javert, creaked at its nailed joints and sheets rustled as the two men shifted positions. Eventually the noise ceased. After the short reprieve, the next sound was a faintly incredulous, "I don't feel anything. It couldn't be so bad!"

At this, Jeanne looked over to the curtain and shook her head.

"Aunt Jeanne, what are they doing?" Cosette asked. Behind the curtain the creaking and rustling had started again, and it was getting difficult for her and her doll Catherine to ignore through their play dinner.

"Something Uncle Pierre told them to do, my dear," Jeanne replied sweetly, careful to show by example that the grunts and faint heavy breathing should be ignored.   

"Stop, this is enough," gasped the now pained voice.

"But it has not even been a minute, Valjean." Clearly Javert had decided it was not yet time to stop, as the heavy breathing continued after this brief exchange, culminating in a grunt and a gasped name.

"Javert!"

It was then that all movement stilled. "Fine," Javert conceded calmly, yet vaguely unsatisfied. "But tomorrow you will have to last longer."

Finally able to focus on her knitting, Jeanne smiled and called out to them, "Now both of you get some rest!"

\---

EARLIER IN THE DAY

A pale Jean Valjean finally got home after pushing his handcart through the streets of the Cité all night long.

It was Sabbath, the week's end, and he was welcomed with the hug he had been longing for. But even before it began he knew it would not last, because as always his sister Jeanne, who allowed them this moment by discretely turning her back to them, would nevertheless call them to the table for breakfast too soon.  

Sneaking up beside him Cosette's little hands took the bag of soiled work clothes hanging from his fingers. Surely she must be gazing up at them, eagerly but patiently awaiting the morning kiss due to her. He let go of Javert with a smile.

Minutes later at Jeanne's call Valjean made his way to the family table, drying his still wet hands against the fabric of his fresh shirt. An appetizing feast of perfectly toasted bread and steaming-hot chicory await, breakfast for the family but the equivalent of dinner for him, due to his nocturnal work schedule. All was normal except for the odd look Javert was clearly directing at him, too obvious to be ignored. Nevertheless, he kept his smile as he slowly took his usual seat.

“Are you planning to take Cosette to mass?” The Inspector inquired, probingly.

Valjean rubbed a clove of garlic against his bread. “Yes…” aware that Javert would not miss the faint hesitation he failed to conceal. Not when Javert watched through narrowed eyes like that. Reaching for the nearest distraction he lifted his mug to drink, allowing the warm fluid to wash down him. When he set it down he found Javert frowning at him across the table. This was the only day of the week they got to spend together, and he did not want for it to start this way.

By now even Jeanne had sensed the unspoken tension, and he could only smile at her when she glanced at him questioningly, after she traded a long look with Javert. Then she discreetly turned to focus on the children, who were still eating.

“Are you…” ventured the inspector once more, still watching intently, "... cold?" The exposed concern in the voice sent his heart fluttering, something he should be far too old to feel.

“No,” he replied, lowering his eyes to the plate in front of him. He finished his food, noting all the while that Javert was leaving his own forgotten. The time when they were hunter and hunted was not long past, and though he had learned to identify love in that intense gaze it could still make him feel uncomfortable. He shifted his weight on the wooden seat.

"But something is wrong." A statement, not a question.

His shrug did nothing to soften the frown, and he knew only too well that excusing himself was not an option either, because then Javert would surely notice his pained limp, if that was not what triggered the suspicion to begin with. The alternative would be to wait for Javert to lose interest, but all signs point to the fact that the man was determined to get his answer, one way or another.

Javert's large hands nonchalantly warmed themselves on the mug-turned-stove. "What is it?" he pressed.

"It is nothing…" Valjean said, mindful of the frown which was deepening. He would much rather feel Javert's arms than to be the man's cause for concern in this way. He sighed. "It is my hip, Javert, my hip is causing me some discomfort," he admitted softly. Repeating again for emphasis, more strongly this time, "It is nothing," he cleared his throat and gathered up a few bread crumbs.

The man across the table seemed genuinely taken aback. "Pierre is due to return this afternoon, have him take a look at it."

But their time together was too precious for any of it to be spent prodded by a doctor over something which could not be cured, especially with the likely consequence of being banished to bed rest until he must get back to work again. Even if the doctor was his own nephew. He pressed lips together and resolutely shook his head. "No need, it will pass."

A thud of mug heavily set onto table presaged a frustrated outburst, and Valjean grimaced. But it was his sister who spoke up first. "Be a good parent and show the children that there is no need to be afraid of doctors," she chided amicably. It defused the situation so well that for a moment neither man managed to respond.

"I am used to it," Valjean explained in resignation. "It is not fear but that there is nothing to bother Pierre with."

"Were you not planning to stay awake to play with the children?" Jeanne asked while wiping Gavroche's mouth, almost as an afterthought. "He will be home and you will be home, what trouble?" She shrugged slightly to take away some weight from the loving gaze directed at her younger brother. "Enough to keep Javert worrying instead of eating?"

Valjean fought a blush, shocked by his sister's implications. "No, of course not."

Javert's deep humph of agreement could be heard, and Valjean reddened in earnest.

\---

And so began an altered Sabbath routine without Valjean's participation. He remained seated where he was, at the table, and watched the comings and goings of his family in silent awe. It was all still new enough for him that he could scarcely believe everything would be taken care of without his contribution but that was exactly what happened.  

He counted the buckets of water Javert hauled up three floors without his help; he watched how immediately after her wash Cosette went to play in the small patch of sunlight streaming through their window, and how her hair dried in its warmth; he was alarmed when Gavroche kidnapped Catherine and waddled away, just as he chuckled when the boy failed to run when Javert arrested him and brought him to face the wall for about three seconds. He smiled at his sister when he was allowed to help peel potatoes for the stew. He smiled even more when Javert found for him a handful of straw which he could use to make a doll for their son. In Javert's words, so that Gavroche would not become a thief before age two.

He was reading aloud the fable of The Ant and the Grasshopper (see endnotes), delighting in Javert's constant grunts of approval and Cosette's unconditional interest when Pierre arrived. As the young military surgeon-to-be sipped the cup of verbena served up by Jeanne and answered her questions, Valjean noticed that the young man wore a newly grown, scanty mustache and carried a distracted air about him. Sure enough, Pierre soon announced that he had a commitment and will not join for dinner.

If Jeanne was at all disappointed it did not show at all in her wide smile; she had mentioned her suspicion that her youngest was finally trying to woo a demoiselle, and likely she was genuinely pleased. Giving Valjean a knowing glance she excused herself and led the children with her, out to the building's inner courtyard, where they could play with all the other kids.

"Pierre, my nephew." Valjean’s voice was hesitant, and his shame was deep. "Can you spare a moment to take a look at my hip? … It is aching."

The reaction he received somehow increased his shame. "Uncle Jean, where on the hip? It is painful only when pressed? When walking? Or even now when sitting?"

He placed a hand onto his left hip and winced. "The pain is not so bad when I am sitting. For some time, at least."

"What happened?" Within seconds the young man was crouched next to him, gesturing for him to remain seated. When the young doctor laid a firm and assured hand onto the hip, there were two gasps: one of shock and one of pain. "It is badly swollen. Did you fall on it?"

"No. I only walked like normal." The response he came up with sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Impossible. This happened during your work shift? Describe it to me."

"I make rounds in the Cité with a handcart," Valjean replied. It was the truth. But Javert clearly deemed it lacking in some way because he offered his own explanation.

"Valjean collects unconscious vagrants off the streets of the Île de la Cité, and delivers them to the Commissariat of the 9th arrondissement at Place du Chatêlet."

"I thought such work was done with horse-drawn carts?"

Javert nodded. "Some streets are too narrow for horses to pass through without trampling the people they were meant to retrieve safely. When they tried with donkeys the animals didn’t last many days on the potholed path before breaking a leg or otherwise getting badly injured and needing to be put down."

"And the solution was to assign the task to a man with a limp to begin with?"

In that way which maddened nearly everyone with the notable exception of Valjean, Javert responded to this pointed question with a matter of fact: "The work needed to be done."

For the inspector this was clearly reason enough, and Valjean was quick to rush to his defense. "Pierre. I am happy to help those people."

The always polite Pierre made a frustrated gesture and ushered his patient towards the long bed in the corner, not so subtly urging Valjean to lean into his arm. Meanwhile, though the line of questioning changed, the questions continued. "And last night was the road unusually bad? Did you trip or twist your ankle?"

Valjean sighed as he laid back into the pillow, permitting his trousers to be removed. "No. Saturday nights are most busy. I picked up six men and they happened to all be at the beginning of my first round, and then five more through the night." He caught glimpse of the complex expression on Javert's face, a mixture of pride and concern, and lowered his eyes.

"I could tell it was swollen but not quite this bad," Pierre spoke through a sympathetic grimace. The joint was red, hot to the touch, and obviously distended. Oddly the young doctor then turned his attention to Valjean's other leg, his right, and touched the heavily calloused scar around the ankle. Valjean flinched.

"You have overworked your left leg to compensate for your right, Uncle Jean.” Pierre gently cradled the sole of the right foot in his hand and checked the motion of the ankle. "Relax. See how your right foot lays differently than your left when at rest?" Assured hands slowly made his way up from the ankle to the calf, then the knee. “Look at your legs like this, side by side. It must have been this way many years?"

Valjean observed, not for the first time, the difference in size of his legs. Another thing he had been resigned to long ago. "It could not be helped, Pierre." There was no need to mention the Bagne, nor the fact that this was a part of his sentence.

"So now it must also be a habit for you to drag your leg.” Pierre paused, as if deep in contemplation. "Leeches and rest will ease the swelling, but it would do nothing to address the limp. Perhaps, maybe, regular and dedicated exercise can help your right leg gradually regain mobility."

Javert, who had been silently frowning suddenly let out a noisy breath and sneered. "Every policeman knows convicts limp for life, and you tell me using the leg a few times each night will cure it?" For Valjean this skepticism was not the least bit surprising -- in fact, he shared it.

Pierre brushed his fingers on his mustache and turned to face the Inspector. "It is true, in this matter the police may well know as well as the doctors. What I can tell you is that some foreign doctors tell of soldiers shot in the hip who, after a very long time, walked again. However most of my teachers are of the opinion that for cases like this, all is the will of God." The branded man, who felt that his wounds were being opened again, picked up on the meaning that the situation was hopeless. But he was also left mesmerized by the vaguely expectant tone with which Pierre calmly explained it. "It is your choice whether the tiny possibility that Uncle Jean may one day walk like a normal man is enough for you to act on hope, Uncle Javert."

Jean Valjean followed his nephew's gaze to Javert. Gone was the sneer which distorted the policeman's fearsome face. He tried not to stare, and not to allow his jaw to drop -- in this moment Javert appeared properly chastened.

"The hour is late," declared the Inspector resolutely. "I will accompany you to retrieve the leeches and you can give me all the instruction on the way." It would appear that the only part where Pierre was wrong was to imply the choice would be a difficult one.

Before Valjean had much of a chance to convince them otherwise, he found the curtain drawn around him. Only one last piece of advice: "Remember that the exercises should be very uncomfortable but not painful. Always." Pierre patted the back of his hand. "Next time I will check for improvements." Then they were gone. He was left alone with nothing better to do than to stare at the ceiling and to fight his increasing drowsiness. Unsure how he should feel.

\----

"Pierre had gone?"

Valjean recognized his sister's voice, and understood slowly that he had succumbed to sleep after all.

"We passed within a block of his destination so he stayed there. He said he expects to join for dinner on Friday…"

With his hands gripping the bed frame he found leverage to reposition his hip, in search of a little relief to the dull ache, and then, with a suddenness which sent his hands scrambling to cover his barely concealed privates, Javert stepped through the curtain.

"They are not looking." The inspector commented upon seeing his reaction, and Valjean could almost detect a hint of sarcasm. That was more surprising than the glass jar Javert held in one hand, with some black wormlike leeches swimming inside.

He had known this man for a long time. Watched him for even longer. It was clear beyond doubt from Javert's intense focus that he meant business and Valjean silently allowed the man to do what he deemed necessary. Without taking even a second longer than necessary the swollen hip was cleaned and the first leech retrieved by its pointy tail. Valjean did not watch when it made contact, but the sensation still elicited from him a whimpered grunt.

"Is this the right place?" Javert nudged the crawling thing a couple of times with a careful finger until it stopped. Then he nudged it again to make sure it had latched on.

This was a question directed to him and Valjean broke his silence. "That feels… wet, it is unsettling," he explained.

"Only a little wet," came the firm response.

He nodded in agreement - he saw that Javert had made sure the leeches were not dripping before it was applied - and tried to give a better explanation. "But it is moving, wiggling." That was part of it, but the true source of his discomfort was something he could not give word to until he caught himself tugging on the bottom of his shirt, trying to wedge it securely around his private parts. "Will you…" he whispered, "make sure they don't bite me here?" Not just this, but also the way Javert was watching his lower body was disconcerting, however that part surely could not be helped.

"Of course I won't allow any of them to… that is not where Pierre said they should bite. Unless…" Javert matched his volume, "you have pain there too?"

"No, no…" he muttered, shaking his head. He could swear that he saw a faint smile flash across Javert's face, before it vanished and the expression became stern again.

The Inspector cradled his scarred ankle with one hand and lifted it slowly, supporting the back of his knee with the other hand. In this way he raised the leg off the bed a little bit, then lowered it, then raised it again, a bit further… checking its ability for motion. A few minutes of this light exercise and Valjean began to feel confident, because it did not hurt, and it even distracted him from the leeches still feeding on his opposite hip. But Javert, who had been watching him, humphed and shifted position, lifting the atrophied leg quite a bit further this time to set the back of his ankle against the policeman's chest. Then, paying undivided attention to his increasing gestures of discomfort, Javert steadily moved closer, pushing his leg closer to vertical. He had no idea what Pierre had told Javert to watch for, but before the discomfort truly progressed to pain the man stopped. Resting a palm across the sole of his foot, Javert now rotated his damaged ankle forward and back, in a close simulation of normal walking motion, where his toes would push back against the ground. Exactly the way they had not done since the first months of his sentence. Almost immediately he felt the first pangs of pain, and they spread up his entire leg. He tensed.

A cool, careful hand settled on the back of his thigh and calmly massaged at the muscle knotting there; it was a strong hand which knew about pain. It brought undeserved relief. Valjean gritted his teeth and allowed the pain to progress further, before Pierre's instructions compelled him to speak up. "This is starting to hurt."

"Hold on just a little longer," Commanded Javert, his voice steady, but his countenance suddenly hesitant as he shifted to support the growing weight which Valjean was resting on his torso. "I don't think it is supposed to hurt this much… wait, let me try so I know how it feels." Valjean heaved a small sigh of relief as his leg, which was beginning to spasm, was lowered back to the bed.

The man moved their blanket out of the way and laid onto his back, then in one fluid motion raised his leg and swung his ankle. "I don't feel anything!" Javert exclaimed in surprise, and in the man's subsequent glance Valjean saw accusation. "It couldn't be so bad?"

Jean Valjean looked away in shame and refrained from speaking again when Javert resumed the stretching. Soon sweat rolled down his forehead and he breathed heavily through gritted teeth. He reminded himself that it was a blessing just to feel that man's touch on his scar and to experience anything that was not fear. But even Javert's motions had become hesitant. "Stop, this is enough," he said in defeat.  

That was difficult enough for him to say, yet it was hearing a similar tone in Javert's reaction that was most difficult to bear. "But it has not even been a minute, Valjean."  

"Javert," he repeated plaintively, wiping a sleeve across his face, "a hug would do more good than this."

His leg was laid back down, for good this time, and with only a comment making clear that they would try this again tomorrow, Javert folded a clean cloth as he waited for the leeches to fall off naturally. Then they went back into the jar, and the cloth went over the wounds leaking watery blood. It was a well-known side-effect of leeches that the blood would not congeal for a while, and Valjean held his bandage as Javert left without a word, anguished that he had disappointed the man who saw in him more than just an old, limping former convict.

Exhausted in mind as well as body, his eyelids drifted close against his will as he waited for Javert's return, because there was something he needed to say. It was a sign of how tired he was that only the cooling sensation of ointment being rubbed into his thigh that he knew the other man was back, not the sound of the curtain parting or even the movement of the big man settling down at the foot of the bed they shared. He reached out in that direction.

"I am not done yet."

He reached again, with more effort this time, lifting his upper body to do so. And then the mattress under him quaked, and arms wrapped around him. "I am not done yet," Javert told him, but he did not care. This was the hug he wanted.

"Thank you," he whispered as he tried his best to reciprocate the hug. "Javert, it does not matter to me whether these stretches help with my limp." His words came out slowly but with perfect clarity. "What matters to me is that you are trying." It was not an apology as he did not even have the right to offer one.

"You pray all the time but have you ever prayed that you would stop limping?" Javert's question was a surprising one which woke him, if only momentarily. But to answer did not take much thought.

"Never." It was just as inconceivable as asking a policeman not to arrest him, in those years his life was in ruins. As the arms held him in silence he knew Javert understood this.

He heard a soft sigh then the words: "You should start to do it."

The stillness, and the silence meant it was a question, even if one only he could understand.

He rested his head on the shoulder lowered for him to settle, and looked for a small patch of skin which would provide shelter, though he knew he would only find fabric. To pray for yet another miracle, after all he had been granted, struck him as deeply ungrateful. Nevertheless, that gift would no longer be meant for himself alone.

"Yes."

That was his answer, no further words were needed, but he was seized by an urge to speak. "Next week we should go to the cathedral… you can meet me after mass. I want to find the imperfections…"

"Imperfections in the building? Why?"

"Because God loves us despite our imperfections… I want to find... under... neuf... " His mind was going blank, and Javert's confused question "Clocher neuf?" he knew he was no longer speaking in complete sentences. Instead, he leaned in as the arms loosened their hold, trying to prolong the hug.

" ... I love you…" he muttered.

A soft, warm touch, fleeting, graced his lips. It was Javert's kiss. He smiled and relaxed into sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Pehr Henrik Ling:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pehr_Henrik_Ling
> 
> The Cricket and the Ant:  
> http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue209/cigale.html
> 
> Hip pain:  
> https://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/patientinstructions/000777.htm


End file.
